Of Elven Gentlemen and Jewel Wars
by Squirrel on the Edge
Summary: Gone with the Wind set in Valinor, starring Fingon O'Hara. For the Henneth Annun challenge to adapt a classic to Tolkien's world. 3-1-04 revamped ch2
1. Ch1

Findekáno was not beautiful. At least not by the reckoning of the Eldar. He had not the serene and aloof grace of his mother, nor his father's impressive air of command. He was subtle, both in his looks and in the well-concealed but still caustic wit he possessed. Still, he was all Noldo, and his origins showed themselves quite clearly. Underneath the bright blue-grey eyes of the Finwëans were high cheekbones that gave his face an angular look. A straight nose lead down to almost over-full lips that were too feminine for such a face. All this was framed by a mass of raven hair pulled back into the signature plaits indicative of Nolofinwë's eldest son. He held himself to the standards expected of the royalty that he was, the royalty that his mother would never cease to remind that he was. The royalty that required he restrain his own desires with every action. 

Sitting on either side of him on the front steps of his father's house were two long and lanky copper-haired mirror images. The fading light of Laurelin gave their skin a bronze glow, as though they had passed many a day in its light riding and hunting on the vast plains of Aman. They were virtually indistinguishable, from their leather boots to their brown riding pants to the smirks on their fair faces. The Fëanorian twins were familiar visitors in Nolofinwë's household, coming to call whenever one of their frequent hunting trips brought them near. These visits, however, were becoming increasingly rarer, as their expeditions into the wilds of Valinor were lessened in number as of late. Rumor around Tirion was that their father, ever the restless mind and industrious genius, had his greatest work in the making. It was so great that he required aid from all seven of his sons.

"I know you most likely don't care about whatever grand thing your father is making, but I know your brothers do. I am also aware that Fëanáro needs every one of you seven helping him. If you keep wandering off, he'll never finish and all of Valinor will die of suspense before we find out what he's had in the works for so long," Findekáno scolded the brothers.

"Please, cousin, don't get your tunic in a twist. Father has Maitimo and Atarinkë. They're more than enough help. Besides, he's done."

"Done?"

"Yes, done." Pitya said with a grin. "We're just out and about gathering information for him. You know, listening to idle gossip. He wants to know what people are saying about him these days."

"Why would it be any different from what they always say about him? I haven't heard anything. If there's any interesting gossip going around, I would've heard it from Irissë by now. You know how she is, nothing gets by her."

"If you haven't heard yet, you will soon, Findekáno," Telvo said, suddenly sobering. His tone was dark with foreboding as he continued. "There's trouble coming soon. I can feel it. Father can, too, I know, but he'd never admit it. These Silmarils … they're not right somehow … just not right. I couldn't tell you why, but something in me cries out against them. Something cries out to me about a terrible end to this beginning we've created," He stopped with a pensive look clouding his features. The cheerful late afternoon atmosphere had abruptly turned to a dark that was unfamiliar and unfelt in the lands of the Valar. The inevitable and still unwritten doom that the three were yet innocent and oblivious to had already begun to affect them.

Findekáno tried not to let the gloom that had fallen over his friends reach him as he listened to his cousin speak. He had indeed heard of unrest around the household of Fëanáro from many in Tirion. Just what the Silmarils were was unclear to him, as to most others not in close contact with the master smith. Despite feeling distinctly uncomfortable with the changes that had come over his companions, he made a gallant effort to maintain his slightly bored mien as he inquired as to what exactly Ambarussa's father had made. The older twin thought a while before answering in an uncertain tone.

"You know, cousin, I don't know if I can say quite what his creation is. There are three jewels. Three, yet they seem to share one life. Three parts of the most beautiful jewel, no, the most beautiful of anything you have ever beheld. The light in them, about them ..." he trailed off with more than a trace of wonder in his voice. His brother looked equally awed. Findekáno felt something, although whether it was the awe that his cousins were experiencing, skepticism, or fear, he couldn't say. He shook off the unpleasant sensation and attempted to lighten the conversation.

"So awestruck you seem to be by the mere memory of these _things_. Well, you two are perfectly absurd!" He continued in jest, "Either you're being ridiculous or Fëanáro has captured the light of the Two Trees themselves!"

Telvo was still a moment before responding.

"Yes, Findekáno, I think he has."

Forgive me for the somewhat extensive notes here. First of all, I've tried to make the style vaguely reminiscent of that used by Margaret Mitchell. I've also tried to parallel the characters in the novel with the characters I'm using, taking into account obvious differences that would be glaringly out of place in Tolkien's world. So, for instance, if Fingon seems somewhat of a ditz, it's because that's how Scarlett was presented in the beginning of the novel. Likewise, if someone else seems out of character, it's most likely because it serves a purpose in the story. However, if you think a certain character is not acceptable as how I've written them, please let me know. This is definitely a very different endeavor for me, and I'd love to know some outside opinions. By the way, if anyone has read Gone with the Wind and would like to beta this for me, send me an e-mail at squirrel_on_the_edge@yahoo.com. Thanks for putting up with all this; I promise the notes won't always be this long!

Quenyan names:

Findekáno – Fingon

Telvo – Amras (Telufinwë)

Pitya – Amrod (Pityafinwë)

Ambarussa – Amrod and Amras

Fëanáro – Fëanor

Nolofinwë - Fingolfin

Irissë – Aredhel

Maitimo – Maedhros

Atarinkë - Curufin


	2. Ch2

            Telperion was fully waxed by the time Findekáno heard the distant hoof beats of his father's horse. He walked down the stairs that he and Ambarussa had occupied that afternoon. It would be wise to greet his father outside the house, far from his mother's acute hearing. Nolofinwë was returning from his half-brother's house on business that was unknown to the rest of the family. Anairë questioned why he bothered trying to heal the rift that existed between him and Fëanáro when his brother obviously just wanted to isolate himself from the rest of the world and reality. She was always the reserved lady, tailoring her speech as to not offend or give the appearance of anything but a calm composed source of femininity. All matters concerning her estranged brother-in-law or his sons, however, were always handled with thinly-veiled hostility. Findekáno had to be as far as possible from his oftentimes overbearing mother if he wasn't to upset her. He wanted news of Fëanáro and his family from his father. One member of the family in particular.

            Even from a distance, Findekáno could tell that Nolofinwë's mood was dark. Relations between him and his half-brother were strained as of late. However, rumors swirling around both houses, and indeed most of Valinor, exaggerated the state of affairs. There was no hostility between the two, but there was certainly a sense of tension and unease. His face brightened as he noticed Findekáno approaching. 

            They intersected halfway down the road leading to the house. Findekáno was sure that his father would be able to guess why he was outside in the middle of the night barefoot and wearing nightclothes.

            "Your mother will be sleeping by now, Findekáno. You needn't have come outside to talk about them."

            "What makes you think that was all I wanted? Is it so unusual for a son to anticipate his father's return home and want to greet him before he comes to the door?"

            Nolofinwë chuckled at his son's cheerful, if slightly sarcastic, manner. Findekáno was glad to see his father's smile again. It seemed to appear less and less lately.

            "Don't worry, I'll tell you everything." Findekáno held the horse's reins while the other dismounted. Casually leaning against his mount, Nolofinwë began to recount his visit, not going into great detail about anything specific. It was not long before Findekáno's interest had been piqued; the moment his father mentioned Fëanáro's sons, his head inclined the slightest bit and his breathing quickened almost imperceptibly.

            "What of them?" he asked. He cringed inwardly the moment he said it, thinking it sounded much too eager. "Of his sons?" Schooling his face into the expression of indifferent boredom it so often displayed, he listened while his father recounted his latest encounters with the seven sons of Fëanáro. 

            Findekáno had never given much thought to Maitimo while growing up. He considered it a curious thing that his cousin had suddenly grabbed his interest. Since the day nearly ten years ago that Fëanáro and his first son had come to pay a visit, he had loved him. It was as simple as that.

            He and Irissë had been in the garden when Maitimo had come strolling down the path. To the devilish glint in his eyes, Findekáno could remember every detail of him. He had been dressed in riding clothes. Even covered in dust from the road, he seemed immaculate. He wore soft leather trousers and a tunic of deep blue that was made of some material he couldn't identify. It looked smooth, though, and soft; like it was made to run your hands over and feel the muscled chest right under the fabric. A copper glow hung halo-like above his head from the reflection of Laurelin's light off his red mane. Eru, how Findekáno had wanted to run his hands through that hair, just reveling in the feel of silk between his fingers.

            He still wanted to.


End file.
